Mycroft's War
by Herr Fritz
Summary: "Do try not to start any wars before I get home, Mycroft.  You know what they do to traffic."    It had been such an easy request...


**I would love to claim ownership of Sherlock, but then I'd be lying. And good people don't lie. Unless doing so would grant them ownership of Monty Python, Cleveland, and a large chocolate cake. **

**And even that's a stretch.**

**/-/**

"_Do try not to start any wars before I get home, Mycroft. You know what they do to traffic."_

If Mycroft could defend himself, he'd justify it all as a cultural misunderstanding.

He'd started the day as normal; diplomatic treaties on his desk to be signed, Anthea texting away on her blackberry, tea brewed and waiting for him, and several world crises waiting to be solved on his answering machine.

He had been sure he'd get to leave early.

Anthea had ruined his merry mood; however, with an off-hand announcement.

"You were contacted by the head of the Belgian Parliament- a representative needs to meet up with you to discuss the consequences of their collapsed government on British-Belgian military sanctions."

Damn. That warranted a mental swear.

"What time?"

"Quarter to three."

"What time is it now?"

"Two sharp."

"Damn." That warranted an oral curse.

"Sir?" Anthea hastily glanced up from her screen, unaccustomed to hearing Mycroft so harsh. Her boss in turn shot her a condescending glare.

"I can curse as I wish, you know. Sherlock's not around to try and tattle to Mummy."

That had been the end of the exchange, Anthea raising her palms in sarcastic surrender, then returning to her ever-pressing handheld. Even if she had persisted, though, Mycroft could spare her no more time. There were statistics to assemble, contracts to amass, and a timetable to acknowledge.

There were times Mycroft tired of being the British Government.

Even with all his resources, Mycroft made it to the meeting with only a few minutes to spare. Never the one to lose the upper hand by appearing rushed, he made his customary greeting to the Belgian diplomat, an older, stiff chap who seemed as if he'd be better suited at slapping the hands of unruly boarding school boys with a ruler than negotiating international military policies.

"I was expecting you earlier." The harsh accusation brought the meeting to a sour start. "It's considered a gentleman's duty to arrive with time to spare."

"I'm terribly sorry about that." Mycroft hastily apologized, his pardon sounding false as he made his way to the diplomat's seat, pulling it out.

The insincerity was forgotten as the Belgian visibly softened; Mycroft had appealed to an old yet considerate custom of respect.

"Thank you most kindly." He made his way in front of the chair, then paused, as if waiting for Mycroft to offer something else.

"Pardon me, is there anything wrong?" The Holmes looked at him concernedly. To his surprise, the diplomat's face soured once again before he stubbornly lowered himself into the chair.

"Just a slight overestimation of the hospitality of the British, I'm afraid." He snubbed, "But that's of no concern. Are you going to dawdle around on pleasantries, or have you forgotten what we met to discuss?"

In a barely concealed state of shock, Mycroft slid into his own seat, unaware of how the diplomacy started off so bitterly. He'd never turned anyone against him _unintentionally,_ and he was loathe to think retirement was an approaching option.

Oh well, it was of little consequence, Mycroft attempted to reason through. A rocky start at the beginning could soon be smoothed over by his usual manipulation. It was only a matter of minutes before he found the right notes to play.

/-/

From bitter to sour, stressed to broken, disconcerted to disgusted, the meeting had absolutely failed. For the first time in his life, Mycroft's ability to charm and manipulate had failed. The delegate had been closed to him from the start. Every suggestion Mycroft had offered had been unreasonably found to hold some flaw, every compromise was claimed to have a selfish motive, every insistence of peace was met with stubborn disbelief and a jab to Britain's selection of insolent representatives. The delegate was obviously determined to deal with Mycroft in a civil manner, or longer than necessary even, made clear when, as the clock struck five, the Belgian promptly stood to exit.

"I would like to have said this meeting was of no worth, but I'd be wrong." He peered at Mycroft. "It gave me a clear picture of how important Britain sees our nations' relationship. Furthermore, it gave me guidance on how our future relationships can be directed. Good day."

As if on cue, the door clocked open, Anthea on the other side. A strange occasion, she held no blackberry in her hand; her attention was focused entirely on the delegate.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Ambassador. I hope Britain remains in good light."

There was only a scoff in response.

As the man began to step through the doorway, Mycroft, seeing there was little left to loose, spoke.

"If I may, sir, was there something I-"

"If you don't know what you did wrong, I see no reason to reward your ignorance!" the Belgian hissed, before hastily kissing Anthea's cheek and storming out.

Then it hit Mycroft in a cold flood; realization of what he'd forgotten.

"Three kisses on the cheek before one begins business as a sign of a prosperous outcome."

A scowl fell on his face before he realized his own self anger, fury marring otherwise reserved features. _Of_ _course_ it would be a typical Holmes to forget the sole custom that involved physical intimacy.

He must have remained shocked stiff for several minutes, because the next thing he knew he was being stirred by Anthea, anxiously pointing at her blackberry's screen. Still stunned, Mycroft slowly took the device and began to read the email on it.

It was a copied email from the diplomat he had just met with, forwarded to Anthea no doubt by a bribed recipient of the message. With a numb horror, Mycroft began to read, recognizing certain words describing him: 'insensitive', 'haughty', 'uncooperative'; but the last line, the brute summary of the diplomat's anger, was what chilled Mycroft to the core.

"Due to the obvious degeneration in relations the British have disgraced us with, it is in my supreme recommendation that-"

The final few words couldn't even be spoken. Over and over Mycroft heard his brother's words ring in his head.

_"__Do __try not to start any wars before I get home, Mycroft. You know what they do to traffic."_

Sherlock was going to be _pissed_.

_**/-/**_

**I'll admit, Mycroft seems a little bumbling in this sketch, but one has to admit…any man that deliciously brilliant can be forgiven. Wouldn't you agree?**


End file.
